Free Waterloo by Andrew Swanston

form irregular-shaped but tightly packed squares around them, with the front line kneeling and bayonets pointing outwards. It was another manoeuvre they had practised and practised until they could do it blindfolded and it was all that stood between them and death at the point of a lance or the edge of a sabre. No horse would run in to or try to jump a line of bayonets.
    The French cavalrymen, in their fine plumed helmets and green jackets and breeches, were expert and ruthless. Two of the slowest of Macdonell’s men were caught in the open and cut down with scything swipes of a sabre. The remainder had scrambled into the squares when the first of the French cavalry reached them, the last of them diving head first over a kneeling front line. Sure enough, the horses shied away and their riders were forced to bear off. But as soon as they were clear, more artillery shells exploded around the square. A phalanx of stationary soldiers made a tempting target for a Gunner.
    A shell landed just in front of the first rank, broke into pieces and killed two men instantly. Their bodies were dragged aside and the gap they left closed. From the middle of his square, Macdonell shouted an order and it crabbed sideways and forwards. The others followed suit. The French cavalry stood a hundred yards away, waiting for the squares to break.If they did, they would be on their prey in a trice, sabres held in extended arms, ready to thrust and hack at defenceless heads and bodies.
    The next shell fell harmlessly in the place they had vacated. Another shouted order and again the squares crabbed sideways. Macdonell had the strange sensation of acting out a play in front of a mounted audience. Receive cannon shot, move, keep the square tight, more shot, move again. Hold the square. Never give the audience a chance to attack. More like a dance, perhaps, than a play. Men went down, blood streaming from their heads and chests. One called pitifully for his mother. Another looked Macdonell in the eye, swore mightily and died. No one moved to help the wounded. The square must be held or they would all die.
    There was a break in the cannon fire and the cavalry came closer, shouting insults and daring the infantrymen to fire at them. When they retreated, the French artillery started up again. Macdonell, keeping an eye on the cavalry, tried to gauge the moment to form line and charge at the infantry. Too soon and the cavalry would reach them before they were among the enemy and into the woods behind them, too late and they would be easy meat for the French muskets.
    He was spared the decision. Captain Tanner’s artillery teams had dragged their cannon over the field and around the charnel house of the farm. The captain’s first shot was aimed at the cavalry. It sent horses and riders, earth, debris and bodies cartwheeling into the air. The survivors did not wait for a second shot, but turned their mounts and galloped for cover. The light companies’ charge was instant, so fast that Macdonelldid not know whether the men had waited for his order or not. Screaming their battle cries, they ran at the French line, driving it backwards into the wood. Fifty yards short of the treeline, he halted them and called for them to spread out in their pairs in the tall rye. They would give the French something to think about in case they were considering another attack.
    Of French cavalry there was now no sign. The artillery volley had spooked them and rather than attack the guns they had gone in search of easier prey. And the French artillery was as good as useless against skirmishers their gun captains could not see. It was tempting to seize the opportunity and charge straight at them. But Macdonell did not know their strength and a headlong dash into the woods might prove disastrous.
    Off to their right, he knew from the remorseless crash of cannon that the fighting in the centre of their lines was ferocious. Wellington would have demanded reinforcements for the